For things at a common destination there is a common path. Not always easy to see. But there.

What man is such a coward he would not rather fall once than remain forever tottering?

They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent to them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote. For although each man among them was discrete unto himself, conjoined they made a thing that had not been before and in that communal soul were wastes hardly reckonable more than those whited regions on old maps where monsters do live and where there is nothing other of the known world save conjectural winds.

He thought that in the history of the world it might even be that there was more punishment than crime but he took small comfort from it.

This is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They don't give up

Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.

Rage is really only for the good days. The truth is there's little of that left. the truth is that the forms I see have been slowly emptied out. They no longer have any content. They are shapes only. A train, a wall, a world. Or a man. A thing dangling in senseless articulation in a howling void. No meaning to its life. Its words. Why would I seek the company of such a thing? Why?